Ol' Uncle Oscar

Ostensibly, the Academy Awards honor "excellence in cinematic achievements." But we know that's not really the case. Even another venerable body of American cinema, the American Film Institute, acknowledges this: of the AFI's 100 best films of all time, only eight have been recipients of the "Best Picture" award. What films win "Best Picture"? Braveheart? Mutiny on the Bounty? Crash?

While Oliver! and Slumdog Millionaire might take home golden men, their achievements, though certainly works of public relations art, aren't really cinematic. So what are the Academy Awards for, and why does the Academy choose to honor the films it does? In his 2005 book Hollywood and the Culture Elite, film historian Peter Decherney outlines how the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences was formed to postpone the unionization of Hollywood's actors, writers, and directors:

"Stagehands, electricians, and other crewmembers had been unionized several months earlier in the Studio Basic Agreement. The Academy's members arbitrated labor contracts, but that was only the most direct manifestation of their management role. In order to defer the unionization of the Hollywood workforce, the Academy took several steps to define film industry jobs as skilled artistry rather than labor. The ultimate goal of the Academy was to oversee the Hollywood workforce from training to retirement, and the most public and disarming sign of this process was the establishment of the Academy Awards in 1929... the Awards assisted in the definition and installation of filmmaking labor and art... the awards separated "below the line" workers from the artists who wrote, directed, and acted in films, effectively distinguishing the unionized laborers from the artists."

The Academy Awards initially sought to recognize films that took chances, artistically: "the first ceremony (cohosted by [Cecil B.'s brother] William de Mille)awarded separate prizes to the best picture (Wings) and the best "unique and artistic picture" (Sunrise), separating commercial fare from prestige art films. Wings, William A. Wellman's WWI fighter pilot film, was a comparatively big-budget epic that capitalized on Charles Lindbergh's popularity. On the other hand,Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans is a weird and wonderful love story, told in a kooky expressionistic style by F. W. Murnau. (Roger Ebert has a great essay on the film.)

So if there was a category for best "unique and artistic picture" this year, what would make the cut? Maybe "Bright Star", tautly told with images, instead of "Up in the Air," where dialogue babbles like a player's piano, an often forgettable tune.

Bad, Bad Bridges

Like Mickey Rourke's Randy 'The Ram' Robinson in 2008's The Wrestler, Jeff Bridges' Bad Blake is an American artist past his prime and down on his luck. Gigging in bars and bowling alleys, driving himself and his guitar hundreds of miles a day in his '70s Chevy Silverado, Blake's life seems bleak, if blessed, in moments of amber light, by a loyal base of mature country-blues fans. When he meets lovely journalist Jean Craddock (Maggie Gyllenhaal) in Santa Fe, he's forced to temper his habit for whiskey (the made-up brand "McClure's") to be with her and her four-year-old son. But when temperance slips, just for a moment, redemption seems like it might be out of Bad's grasp.

It's a strong man's moment of weakness, in keeping with any redemption story, and accompanied by the sense that each nadir is characteristic of something inescapable, of a long life of low moments. "Where do your songs come from?" Jean asks Bad. His answer -- "Life, unfortunately," -- perfectly befits a country-blues guitarist, but the evidence presented in Crazy Heart seems to say otherwise; that Bad is surrounded by only good. From the manic kindness of his fishing buddy Wayne (a brilliant support by Robert Duvall) to the graciousness and talent of the many musicians who back him, to the gratitude and monetary support of his successful protégé Tommy Sweet (Colin Farrell) to the love and support of fellow addicts in rehab, Bad Blake is not a man alone, but a man cared for. Unlike Aronofsky's dark Jersey story, the southwest of Crazy Heart is pink and sunlit, buoying up its fallen heroes.

The small film is strong because of an artful, tight script (writer/director Scott Cooper's adaptation of Thomas Cobb's novel) and gorgeous performances. Bridges (somehow both irrefutably attractive and the spitting image of Kris Kristofferson) is resilient, Gyllenhaal is sexy and complex (as always), and especially Duvall delivers a real performance. The way that Cooper pimps the almost pornographic beauty of big skies and sunsets in the southwest, a good man's redemption seems lovely, and inevitable, like the turning of the globe or the chord progression in a good country song.

Jeff Bridges interview with clips on NPR.